


I Want You (To Make The Days Move Easy)

by LadyMerlin



Category: Welcome to Night Vale
Genre: M/M, Masturbation, Other, Voice Kink, Written for Night Vale Kink Meme, so if you distinguish between sex and masturbation, the former does not take place in this fic, this is PRE-relationship, which goes without saying in this fandom
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-17
Updated: 2013-09-17
Packaged: 2017-12-26 21:06:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,838
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/970299
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyMerlin/pseuds/LadyMerlin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Night Vale is an experience, to say the least. Carlos is prepared for the experienced. He's not prepared for the loneliness of facing an experience like Night Vale, on his own. Until a voice comes out of nowhere (the radio), talking about him (of all people) and makes him feel a little less alone. </p><p>Written for this prompt on Night Vale Meme: I'd love a fic of Carlos listening to Cecil on the radio for the first time, and hearing a loving description of how "beautiful and perfect" Cecil thinks he is. Flattered and turned on by Cecil's voice, Carlos masturbates while listening.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I Want You (To Make The Days Move Easy)

**Author's Note:**

> This turned out more melancholy than I'm sure the OP intended it to be, but I'm sorry. Like I said on LJ, this is unbeta'd, and I'm warning because I wrote this in 15 minute intervals in the ladies bathroom at work, on my phone. Not the first Night Vale fic I've written, but certainly the first one I'm publishing.
> 
> Cross Posted to the Night Vale Kink Meme, and LJ.

When Carlos arrived in Night Vale, he had no _idea_ what the hell was going on. It’s not like he hadn’t known what he was getting into, when he signed up for the research stint in Night Vale. With all the returning scientists either having to be committed to asylums or flying off the Nepal to live out their lives as goats, he’d known that he’d be neck deep in _something_ , even if he hadn’t known what. But despite all of that, he had had _no idea what he was getting into_.

 

Occasionally he wondered if he was just permanently high, or something, because what the actual _fuck_.

 

But apart from the feelings of complete and utter befuddlement, confusion and outright panic, he mostly felt overwhelmingly lonely.

 

The desert was (and is) hot, like he had never felt before. It’s not like New York didn’t get hot; it did. But it was hot, and wet, and then cool, and freezing, and windy, and _lush_ with changes. If it had ever felt oppressively hot in New York, he’d survived because he’d known that it would get better, soon. Nothing ever lasted for long, in New York.

 

When he got off the tiny plane in a tiny little air-field in the desert, it had felt like he was stepping into an oven. Like he was being cooked alive on an open flame. The ground and the air were equally dry, parched, and _hot_. The sun beat down relentlessly, and there was no escaping it. Even when he got indoors, the air was arid, and _miserable_. He’d never felt that kind of heat in his _life_.

 

And he hadn’t known anyone. He’d met a few people, and they seemed friendly enough, if somewhat _insane_ , but he hadn’t really _known_ anyone. It was a small town like he’d never experienced. Growing up in New York had meant that he knew what it meant to be alone, but he had never quite experienced loneliness. Everyone was alone, in New York. Everyone was a stranger, and in that they had a unifying commonality. He’d never felt isolated in New York, even when he’d moved away from home, to be closer to his labs, into a neighbourhood where he knew no one.

 

Here, in Night Vale, no one seemed to be alone. Everyone was wandering around in two’s and three’s (safety in numbers), waving at each other on the streets and calling out greetings and goodbyes. Everyone knew everyone, in Night Vale. Except Carlos. No one knew Carlos, and he knew no one. If he died here (which was a disturbingly real possibility), no one would know. It’d take months for his mentors and colleagues in New York to realise that something was off, and if he expired in his bed before the sun came up (or was eaten by the shadowy figures that seemed to be patrolling his hallway, what the _fuck_ ), no one would know it.

 

That was before he’d known about the Secret Police, but still.

 

And he’d lain in his bed, alone, that first night, and had, embarrassingly enough, cried himself to sleep. They’d told him that Night Vale was insane, sure. He’d taken their stories with a few pinches of salt (entire saltshakers). He should have taken their stories as understatements, but he didn’t blame them. He’d have to understate his own stories when he went back out, because no one would believe him otherwise. _If_ , he went back out.

 

They hadn’t told him how loneliness could cripple you. How you could sit alone in your lab and feel invisible, and worthless, like you were going to melt into the shadows (metaphorically, not literally). They hadn’t told him how the silence in your apartment could feel like an anvil on your chest, until you struggled to breathe. They hadn’t told him how cold it could get, at night, in the middle of the desert, in Night Vale.

 

And on his third day, when he’d been looking up tickets for New York, he’d remembered something his mother had once said to him. She’d told him that when _she_ was lonely, because his father had gone to work, and he and his sister were in school/university/at work, she’d turn on the radio and sing along with songs her own mother used to play for her, and she’d instantly feel less alone.

 

So he’d minimised the browser window (he didn’t dare close it, because something (a scorpion in his lab - _what_ ) had told him he wouldn’t be able to connect to the internet again, anytime soon), and he’d turned on the small, blue radio on his lab bench. It had come with the lab, like everything else he owned. There had been a little sticker with his name on it. Well, it had said ‘Mr. Scientist’, but that was him. Probably.

 

He flipped through almost 30 different frequencies without coming across a single human voice. He came across whale song (probably), and static, and some oddly melancholy howling, and an oddly normal orchestra, which had made him incredibly hungry. He’d just been about to flip past the thirty-first frequency, when the song ended, and an incredibly smooth voice came on. “And that,” it started, “was the weather, Ladies and Gentlemen.”

 

He paused, hand on the antiquated radio dial. “And there’s an exciting piece of news, dear listeners, someone new has come to Night Vale!” He hadn’t been able to believe it. Not really. “His name is Carlos, and he’s a scientist, and he has perfect, _perfect_ hair, and such an incredibly strong jaw, oh my!”

 

He’d had to sit down, because it had been a long, _long_ time since someone had said such nice things about him. It had been even longer since someone’s voice had been so… appealing, to him.

 

He’d sat down, and listened to every word the radio host had said. Every, single, word. Even though not many of them made sense in the order they were said. Especially not the parts about the municipally mandated slice of Pizza at Big Rico’s. Carlos was a science scientist, not an economics scientist (he didn’t think they were real scientists, but he was too nice to say so - science had perfect rules, and economics seemed to be made up entirely of exceptions - that was _not_ science), and even _he_ knew that there was something the Competition Commission would have had to say about Big Rico’s tactics.

 

He wasn’t going to say anything, of course. He was a new-comer. What did he know? So when the show had ended, he’d locked up his lab and gone for a slice of pizza. There was something about the brightly lit, vinyl-covered interior of Big Rico’s that made him very nervous. On the plus side, everyone in Big Rico’s seemed nervous, even as they ate their municipally mandated slices of pizza. That made him feel almost welcome. He’d tried to smile at the waitress, but the odd feeling in the pit of his stomach that felt like instinctive fear dimmed the effect. She tried to smile back.

 

When he’d gone home, despite himself, he’d turned on the radio. He’d turned to the same station as earlier, but to his disappointment, there was just a whispering noise, interspersed with soft, almost-musical wailing. He’d turned off the radio, and had gone to bed, inexplicably disappointed.

 

If he’d asked the old woman two houses down, Ms. Josie, what time the radio show would be on, well, no one would know. It had, however, struck him as odd that she’d known exactly which show he was talking about, even though he hadn’t known the name of the host. Well, perhaps people in Night Vale were all just a little odd. And the look in Ms. Josie’s eyes when she spoke of the host, Cecil, told him multitudes about what kind of person Cecil was.

 

Even the lady who had tried to sell him an empty basket, calling it corn, had smiled when he said he needed to go to catch the radio show. Possibly this Cecil character was a small-town celebrity. He certainly had the voice for it.

 

He’d lain in bed, and listened to Cecil rant, and ramble rhapsodically, about everything and nothing. He had an incredible voice. It felt like he was just reaching out, through the radio, with a vocal caress. It was gorgeous. Carlos felt himself still, and fall silent when Cecil was talking, and if afraid that movement would break the lull Cecil’s voice cast on him. It poured and flowed and sank impossibly deep when he was saying something serious. Carlos felt like he could swim in Cecil’s voice, and that if he drowned, he would die a happy man. He’d been listening in a state of semi-arousal, despite himself, when Cecil suddenly spoke about him.

 

“Dear listeners, have you had a chance to meet our new scientist?” Cecil asked, and Carlos stilled even more, running hot and cold because _what_.

 

“Is he not absolutely _perfect_?” he shivered, and his hands moved as if he couldn’t help it, pushing his boxers down and off. Carlos didn’t consider himself an egotistical man, but he was still a man, in the end. Hearing _that_ voice, say those things about _him_ , well.

 

He was hard, and he touched himself in the darkness. The windows were open and milky moonlight was pouring in, dappling the room in silver. But he was in the shadows, and he touched himself without shame. It had been a very, _very_ long time since he’d been touched, even by his own hands. He just hadn’t felt the need, so he hadn’t.

 

“With his gorgeous, dark, curly hair, and his strong chin, he’s _beautiful_.” It was enough to make him whimper, because he was the furthest thing he could think of, from beautiful, but the voice, _Cecil_ , sounded so utterly convinced. He sounded like he was stating irrefutable facts, and the certainty, well.

 

Carlos was a little wet, but not nearly wet enough. He had a mostly neglected tube of lubricant beside his bed, and it was finally going to be put to good use. He squeezed out a little - not too much; he liked a little friction sometimes - and stroked himself. Even the cold of the slick substance didn’t abate his arousal. He felt like he was steaming, radiating heat somehow, and the cool substance went warm quickly, under his own palm.

 

He wanted to unbutton his shirt, but he couldn’t make himself let go of his cock, so he rucked up his shirt with his other hand, and rubbed his thumb on a nipple. He imagined a mouth. He wasn’t sure whose mouth it was, but there was a mouth. Maybe, Cecil’s mouth. But that felt a little dirty, considering he’d never even _seen_ Cecil. Which was odd, because how did Cecil know what he looked like, if he had never seen Cecil? But he didn’t much care. Cecil’s mouth was on his nipple, and his voice, deep, and smooth, and _breathtaking_ , was in his ear.

 

“He’s so kind too! He sent over a letter to the station, to tell us that the earthquakes are still on-going, even though none of us can feel them. He’s got such a big heart, he’s trying to take care of us. We should thank him, in some way!”

 

That sounded a little bit too much like a line from a terrible porno, and Carlos couldn’t help but imagine Cecil, coming to his door, to _thank_ him for his kindness, without his clothes on.

 

He huffed a laugh, because he didn’t even know what Cecil _wore_ , let alone what he looked like without his clothes on. He was being utterly ridiculous, and that only prompted more laughter, which was cut off when he ran his thumb over the skin on the top of his cock, sending shocks of pleasure into his nervous system.

 

Cecil was rambling on about something or other, but it didn’t matter. His voice was incredible, and Carlos pretended he was saying what he’d said the day before; _I fell in love with him, instantly_.

 

In any other circumstance, that would have been really weird. Really, really _very_ weird. But this was Night Vale, and weird was clearly relative, so he disregarded it, and let himself feel the warmth of the words, and Cecil’s voice, washing over him.

 

The tentative, gentle strokes were becoming faster, as heat and pressure built up slowly inside him, deep in the pit of his belly, and his heart began to beat faster. He imagined what Cecil’s voice would feel like, if he spoke into Carlos’ ear. He imagined what it would feel like if Cecil tasted his neck, wrapped his own hand around Carlos’ desperate fingers. He wondered what that voice would taste like, if he kissed Cecil while he was talking. He wondered if it would travel down, deep inside him, and set him shivering.

 

He wondered what it would feel like if Cecil spoke around his dick, moaning and hot and tight, and he groaned, fingers pinching his nipple a little too hard, a little careless.

 

The lube had begun to dry out from his increasingly furious pumping, and the rough skin of his palm was dragging against the soft skin of his dick, his thumb snagging deliberately, roughly in his frenulum, making him arch involuntarily into his own touch, for more, _more_.

 

That was the problem with solo orgasms, he knew. Not all orgasms came equal. There was just something special about sharing space with another person that made everything more heated, and intense, and _glorious_. But with Cecil’s voice washing over him, he almost felt like there was someone else in the room, like there was someone touching him. He was pretty sure there was no one _really_ touching him, but it felt good. Not nearly enough, but good.

 

He considered licking his hand, but decided against it. He broke the rhythm to get more lube, as Cecil started moaning and hissing on the radio. He paused, to make sure everything was alright, but since it seemed to be par for the course, he continued. He got more lube this time, enough to make things wet and runny, since his previous plan wasn’t working.

 

He slicked up his cock, revelling in the feeling of cool drips of fluid on his pelvis and thighs, and slid his other hand down, threading his fingers past his own balls, to touch the soft skin of his anus. He was hot there, and the cool skin of his fingers felt sweet, and terrifyingly hot. He was in a very awkward position, but he could imagine a mouth, a tongue, down there. He could imagine Cecil’s mouth, his voice rumbling into him, licking and tasting him, and a few, firm strokes were enough to send his already-sensitive cock off.

 

He closed his eyes as he came, one hand clenched in the bedsheets and the other still pumping his cock, until he was too sensitive for his strokes to be steady, enjoying the swirling lights and colours behind his eyelids.

 

He wondered hazily, if Cecil would agree to keep pumping him, even when he was trembling and shaking and over-sensitive, over-stimulated. He could never manage it, himself. His arms went limp, and he flinched away from his own touch when the tingling tension prickled against his skin. He wondered how he’d react if Cecil held him down and kept touching him, after he came. He wanted to know what it would feel like, to be so willing, and to still have to be held down.

 

Cecil was saying something about Steve Carlsburg, and a farmer, and he sounded so fierce, that Carlos had no doubt that he could be forceful in bed. His voice turned tender as he talked about Carlos again, saying something about him being ‘beautiful and _perfect_ ’, and then, his voice sounded like a hug. Like a living blanket of warmth.

 

Carlos was dozy and flushed with endorphins. He was warm, but not too hot, and his heart was beating pleasantly fast in the confines of his ribcage. His eyelids were just a little heavy, and he’d wiped himself off absently with whatever fabric he could get his hands on. He was lying on his bed, rumpled and half-naked, and he hadn’t felt this relaxed in a long time. Not since long before he decided to come to Night Vale.

 

For the first time, he felt somewhat charitable towards the little desert town. Maybe, despite the heat, and the solitude, and the utterly weird fuckery that seemed to be the norm in this place, it wasn’t so bad. He knew now that there was at least one person who liked him, quite a bit, even if it was a little weird.

 

He fell asleep easily, just as Cecil wished them all a Good Night. It was alright that Cecil liking him was a little bit weird, he thought, because Carlos possibly liked him back.


End file.
